


until I had you on the open road

by prouvairing



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (Again: Almost), (Almost), Fingering, Heavy Petting, Life-Affirming Sex, M/M, Making Out, On the Run, Road Trips, Trans Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 06:22:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5323829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairing/pseuds/prouvairing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We’ve made it – we’ve – ” Enjolras says. “<i>Fuck</i>, we pulled it off.”<br/>They’re on the run. Officially. Cut ties with the university and with all acquaintances, bound to meet their contact in three days. After that, they’re off to a safe house, probably.<br/>For now, they’re on the road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	until I had you on the open road

**Author's Note:**

  * For [softcourfeyrac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/softcourfeyrac/gifts).



> This was born because of a playlist, and because [softcourfeyrac](http://softcourfeyrac.tumblr.com/) started talking to me about Courfjolras, on the run, getting up to all sorts of shenanigans.
> 
> What are they running from? What have they done?  
> Where's the _plot_ , Serena?
> 
> ... I don't know. I just wanted them to make out on the road.
> 
> PSA; I am a cis girl. I tried to do my best with trans Enjolras here, but I'm aware I might have made mistakes. If anything in this fic is inaccurate and/or offensive, please feel free to point it out to me and I'll take your criticism on board.

After months of slow build-up, of carefully laid plans, of whispered conversations and checklists and preparations… disappearing is absurdly easy.

It’s one phone call.

And then lugging their bags in the trunk of Courfeyrac’s beat-up jeep. Enjolras is looking over his shoulder, and Courfeyrac is shouting after him to hurry. The doors slam. The engine revs.

Courfeyrac pulls out of their parking space. And they’re off.

It’s not anything different, at first. The city streets are the same they’ve travelled a hundred times – same stoplights, same corner stores.

Then it’s the highway.

Courfeyrac would guess that that’s when it truly hits, because –

“ _Fuck_ ,” Enjolras says.

Courfeyrac bursts out laughing. It comes straight from his belly, makes him feel light-headed.

“I can’t believe – ” Enjolras says. Then, he laughs too. It’s a high, breathy sound, and it only makes Courfeyrac _more_ giddy.

“We’ve made it – we’ve – ” Enjolras says. “ _Fuck_ , we pulled it off.”

They’re on the run. Officially. Cut ties with the university and with all acquaintances, bound to meet their contact in three days. After that, they’re off to a safe house, probably.

For now, they’re on the road.

It should feel huge, overwhelming – and in a way, it does. But it’s only making Courfeyrac’s chest balloon. The sweet relief of having it made to the drive, having pulled it off without a hitch.

If everything’s gone according to plan, they’ve got twenty-four hours before anyone will even be on their trail.

Enjolras rolls down the window and leans out, the wind making a mess of his curls. He looks behind, at the road rolling past. He’s still laughing.

“We’ve made it, angel,” Courfeyrac yells after him. “Get the fuck back inside!”

Enjolras sits back, and then his hand is suddenly on Courfeyrac’s thigh, warm, slowly sliding up

“When can you stop?” Enjolras asks.

Courfeyrac throws him a side glance. He’s looking straight ahead, his hair hopelessly tangled, a sort of wild look in his eyes. He’s still smiling, has left the window down and propped his feet on the dashboard.

Courfeyrac checks the road signs.

“We’ve just made it out of the suburbs,” he replies. “Didn’t know you’d be hot for delinquency.”

Enjolras’ hand slide higher, almost at the crease of his hip.

He smiles at the road, beautiful and wicked. He says, “Yes. You did.”

 Courfeyrac planned to go for at least two hours, before they made a first stop, but Enjolras is tracing mindless patterns on the fabric of his jeans.

So he turns the stereo on, to try and distract himself. It doesn’t work very well.

“Tell me you didn’t actually make an on-the-run playlist?” Enjolras says.

“I’m sorry – how could I _not_ make an on-the-run playlist?”

Enjolras is pointedly not looking at Courfeyrac, his smile half-hidden by his hand. By his look, he knows Courfeyrac’s been half-hard for the past half hour at least.

He takes the exit, not even forty minutes later, and Enjolras’ hand on his thigh tightens. It takes them to a country road that’s isolated enough Courfeyrac thinks he just might –

“Fuck, just – ” Enjolras says. “There. Just pull over there.”

It’s a small cul-de-sac half-hidden by trees. Courfeyrac thinks he sees a path scamper off into the woods.

“Better hope no hikers stop by,” he says, pulling a hasty, horrible parking job.

“Shut up,” Enjolras says, and hauls himself across the stick shift, to straddle Courfeyrac’s thighs.

It’s like the escape, all over again. A slow, maddening build-up, and then in a flash he’s sitting here with a lapful of Enjolras.

Enjolras, who fists his hands in Courfeyrac’s shirt and pulls him into a bruising kiss.

Courfeyrac can’t hold back a moan, against Enjolras’ insistent lips – just like he can’t help the way his hands find Enjolras’ thighs. God, he loves those thighs.

If his hands also wander up to grab Enjolras’ ass – well, can he be blamed? Enjolras doesn’t seem to mind, judging the way he groans and pulls him closer, sinking his teeth into Courfeyrac’s bottom lip.

That’s about when _All Star_ comes on.

Enjolras groans, again, which may have something to do with Courfeyrac grabbing his hips and dragging him closer. Or it may have something to do with Smash Mouth bursting out, _Well, the years start coming and they won’t stop coming!_

“No,” Enjolras says. “Not that one.”

“How dare you,” Courfeyrac says, trailing kisses along his jaw. “Don’t you find _All Star_ sexy?”

“I am _not_ touching your dick to Smash Mouth.”

Courfeyrac only _barely_ holds in a rebuttal that goes something like, ‘well, I’ll smash _your_ mouth.’

Enjolras chooses that moment to bend down and suck an angry bruise on Courfeyrac’s neck, which pretty much erases all his higher thinking.

He whines, and bucks underneath Enjolras.

He smiles against Courfeyrac’s skin, the fiend, and proceeds to bite at his earlobe and growl, “Change it.”

Courfeyrac, who’d thought they’d have a little longer until _this_ particular part of their escape got underway, is forced to skip ahead some.

But then – then it’s perfect. Enjolras sighs, and melts into him, and pulls back so Courfeyrac can fist a hand in his silky curls and kiss him again.

The rhythm is slow and steady, the smoky female voice croons in their ears, and Enjolras makes delightful noises, when Courfeyrac pulls at his hair, bends his head back to kiss his neck. He bites, though not hard enough to leave marks, not yet. Enjolras’ hips make tiny, abortive movements, seeking friction, but Courfeyrac holds him still.

He makes a frustrated noise in his throat, which Courfeyrac can feel vibrate against his lips. He grins – then finally bites in earnest, soothing the sting with his tongue.

Enjolras whines, and digs his fingers in Courfeyrac’s shoulders, his thighs trying to clamp together, though they only tighten around Courfeyrac’s hips.

“Courf – ” he groans. “Come back.”

Courfeyrac ignores the request at first, in favour of sucking another mark lower on Enjolras’ throat. He can’t ignore the fingers in his hair, pulling him back roughly.

 _He_ doesn’t love his hair being pulled, but he does love the way Enjolras takes his mouth again, coaxes it open and licks into it.

They’ve done this enough that Enjolras knows exactly how to kiss him, licking along the roof of Courfeyrac’s mouth and making him arch into it, knows the exact amount of teeth to use.

Courfeyrac’s hands are back to grabbing at Enjolras’ thighs, though the jeans do get in the way of him digging his fingers in quite like he wants.

His fingers inch up slowly, making themselves known first. Enjolras grinds into it, and Courfeyrac finally presses his hand against the place between his legs. Enjolras rocks at the angle Courfeyrac knows will bring the seam of his jeans to rub against his clit. He knows Enjolras needs insistent pressure, no light hesitant touches, and a steady rhythm.

“You wet?” he asks, between kisses.

Enjolras bites him, then smiles. “You hard?”

It’s a pointless question, and Enjolras knows that, hence the grin. Courfeyrac’s erection has been pressed up against him for ages, now.

Enjolras kisses him again, hot and wet, and curls his fingers in the soft hair at Courfeyrac’s nape.

Courfeyrac is just unbuttoning his jeans – slowly, to check for his reaction. Enjolras only sucks at his bottom lip and presses closer.

“Hurry,” he gasps.

He’s just slipped a hand inside – where it’s warm and damp and he can dip his fingers between Enjolras’ folds through his briefs – when Courfeyrac’s phone rings.

They’re both still.

It’s the X-Files theme, which tells Courfeyrac all he needs to know. His blood chills.

Courfeyrac’s hand is still in Enjolras’ pants, so it’s Enjolras who untangles his fingers from Courfeyrac’s hair and answers the call. He puts it on loudspeaker.

“Hello?” says the warm voice of their contact.

He’s a man named Combeferre, whom Courfeyrac has only spoken to twice, in the lead-up to this. Combeferre and Enjolras have had much longer conversations, because Enjolras was keen on screening him and his people properly.

Mistrustful is perhaps not the right word for Enjolras – cautious, maybe, when it comes to people. He likes control. He hesitates to put himself in people’s hands.

That he does so with Courfeyrac – both literally and figuratively – never fails to make him feel warm, and vaguely blessed.

“What’s up?” Enjolras asks.

“Are you okay? You sound winded.”

Courfeyrac huffs a laugh, which he hides in the smooth curve of Enjolras’ neck.

“We’re fine,” Enjolras says, slowing his breaths. “Do you need anything?”

“Yeah, I think they noticed something, we’ve registered some unrest,” Combeferre says. “If you’re not on the road, you need to get on it right now.”

“Fuck, are they onto us?” Courfeyrac says. He finally slips his hand out of Enjolras’ jeans, and starts buttoning him up. Enjolras pets his hair in silent thanks.

“Possibly,” Combeferre says. “You need to hurry.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras replies. “We’ll be right there.”

Combeferre makes a low sound of assent. Courfeyrac has never seen him, but he does hope the face matches the voice. Because his voice is something rich and deep and delicious.

“Be safe,” Combeferre says, then hangs up.

Enjolras sighs, and turns to peck Courfeyrac on the lips, before untangling himself and dropping back onto his own seat.

“You’re not going to try to fuck him, are you?” he asks, once Courfeyrac has turned the car back on.

Courfeyrac hesitates. Then he drawls, “… No?”

Enjolras scoffs. “You fucking liar.”

“He could be ugly.”

“Yeah, right.”

“You’re not jealous, are you?”

Courfeyrac says it laughing, and Enjolras rolls his eyes. He reaches out to pull sharply at one of Courfeyrac’s curls.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. His hand scratches at the back of Courfeyrac’s neck. “Just be safe.”

“Ah, angel,” Courfeyrac says. “We’re literally on the run from the authorities. When have we ever been safe?”

Enjolras huffs, and takes back his hand. They’re back on the highway by now – the road stretching before them and a wreckage behind.

Courfeyrac is still frustratingly turned on, but what can you do?

“Just fuck off and drive,” Enjolras says.

**Author's Note:**

> There will probably be more at some point, but I'm juggling a whole lot of projects at the moment, unfortunately, so it will probably take a while. There might even be plot? But don't hold your breaths. There will _definitely_ be smut.
> 
> Yes, the title is from 'Drive' by Halsey, because we're predictable.
> 
> Come say hi @[seagreeneyes](http://seagreeneyes.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


End file.
